Enough is enough!

Following the example of Democratic politicians around the country, I have decided to retire, in order to pursue other interests and spend more time with my family. I am also deeply troubled by Gov. Jan Brewer's recent proposal to deal with Arizona's budget deficit by paying state employees in Trident gum. Given the dollar's current strength against the Trident -- and the illiquidity of gum in general -- the unfavorable exchange rate likely would result in a substantial decrease in my standard of living, which already is pretty substandard.

My last day of work is scheduled to be 2-11-2011, insha'aquabuddha. More precisely, I should say my last day at work, as I don't really intend to do any work on that day, or probably that whole week. To those who understandably may doubt my resolve, let me say that this time I have actually submitted a written and signed Letter of Resignation, which distinguishes the current situation from my previous oral tradition of retirement, in which I claimed I was going to retire in January, May, July, August and November of 2010, and January of 2011, then took it back. And I was able to work the phrase "amazing journey" into my retirement letter, which I count as one of the major accomplishments of my tenure.

Obama Refudiates Death Panels, Declares War on Anger

In an unscheduled press conference earlier today in the Rose Garden, President Obama unveiled a controversial proposal to attempt to ameliorate the persistent and widely-reported anger of the American people. The full text of his speech follows:

"The American people are angry. If there's one thing that we all can agree on -- Democrats and Republicans alike -- it is that: Americans are angry. Whole-heartedly, vociferously, flamboyantly angry. In fact, in a recent poll conducted by a major news organization, more than 85 percent of people surveyed indicated that they were 'Very Angry' or 'Somewhat Angry.' Only 2 percent -- 2 percent -- of respondents said that they were 'Not At All Angry,' and almost all of those also reported that they were 'Heavily Medicated.' As I watch this level of anger continue to rise, I have become increasingly concerned. I fear that if we do not address this problem quickly and decisively, it may threaten to derail our fragile economic recovery, and overwhelm our health care system.

It is well established in the medical literature that uncontrolled anger constitutes an independent risk factor for heart disease and stroke, and likely contributes to undesirable outcomes in a number of other medical conditions. And I think we can all agree that when people are angry they tend to make very poor decisions, and to pose a threat to themselves and others. It is for this reason that I have decided to ask Congress to amend the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act of 2010 to eliminate the provisions establishing my Death Panels and instead use those funds to create a network of free Anger Management Clinics throughout the country, to help people deal with their negative feelings and hopefully find more constructive ways to express themselves.

As you know, I have been very committed to the concept of the Death Panels, and feel that they present a valuable opportunity to reduce our skyrocketing health care costs by eliminating the very old and infirm, who consume a disproportionate share of our nation's medical resources. However, I have had to weigh this against the economic damage which would surely result from lost productivity should I be forced to declare a national 'Time-Out.' But make no mistake: If it comes to that, I will not hesitate to use my executive authority to send folks to sit quietly in a chair in the corner of the room for as long as it takes for them to calm down and learn to play nicely with others. I only hope and pray that such drastic measures do not become necessary.

So I call upon Congress to join me in this effort by moving quickly to enact this urgently needed legislation. God bless you, and God bless the United States of America."

Coming sooner -- the end of the world

An ancient calendar recently discovered at an archaeological site in Central Arizona indicates that the end of the world -- which many people believe will occur in 2012 -- may be coming a bit sooner than expected. Stratigraphic dating shows that the calendar, which covers the period 2007-2009, was apparently buried by an eruption of intra-office memos sometime around November of 2007. Among the many artifacts associated with the calendar were half of a petrified bagel and those darned scissors I've been looking everywhere for.

The calendar in situ (lower center)

The calendar cycle covers the years 2007, 2008 and 2009 before abruptly ending at the date December 31, 2009. Beyond that point there is only a highly detailed map of the Time Zones & Area Codes of the U.S. and Canada, indicating that these ancient seers also possessed a sophisticated knowledge of astronomy, geography and the telephonic sciences.

The long count ends on December 31, 2009

Experts in the field of apocalyptic predictions are taking this find very seriously. Dr. Heinrich Inkhorne of the Institute for the Dissemination of Semi-Baked Balderdash points out that so far the calendar has accurately predicted every holiday that occurred during the period, even such relatively obscure ones as "Administrative Professionals Day" and the birthday of Benito Juarez. The calendar-makers even foresaw the aberrant behavior of the month of February 2008, when a whole additional day suddenly appeared out of nowhere at the end of the month.

Noted theologian and self-help guru Rev. Jim has this advice for people struggling to cope with the unexpected end of days: "The best thing for people to do is to go on living their lives as normally as possible -- max out your credit cards, stop paying your mortgage, things like that. Oh, and there's no need to worry about getting around to registering for spring semester, or having the doctor take a look at that weird mole."

Extinct flying things rediscovered

Recently a bird thought to have been extinct for over half a century, the Ivory-Billed Woodpecker, was spotted in the Big Woods of Arkansas, just hanging out and doing a little pecking (Extinct woodpecker rediscovered). The discovery was greeted with a florid display of emotional excess by some, such as ornithologists Tim Gallagher and Bobby Harrison:

"When we finished our notes," Gallagher said, "Bobby sat down on a log, put his face in his hands and began to sob, saying, 'I saw an ivory-bill. I saw an ivory-bill.'" Gallagher said he was too choked with emotion to speak. "Just to think this bird made it into the 21st century gives me chills. It's like a funeral shroud has been pulled back, giving us a glimpse of a living bird, rising Lazarus-like from the grave," he said.

Others found the news something of an embarrassment, including the ad agency that came up with the slogan "Extinction is Forever" and the Bush Administration, which had frequently--but as it turns out erroneously--cited the Ivory-Bill as an example of the headway being made in the War Against Wildlife. Despite this setback, a White House spokesman vowed that the campaign would continue until the confusing diversity of species now extant was reduced to "something a little more manageable."

Now that the wily woodpecker's hideout has been discovered, most high-level government officials feel that it is only a matter of time until it is captured or killed, or both. To that end, thousands of loggers have been deployed to the region, and are working around the clock. Already the Big Woods of Arkansas has been downgraded to the Fair-to-middlin-sized Woods of Arkansas, and is shrinking fast. Total clear-cutting is expected to be achieved before the end of the year. At that point, specially trained NRA Death Squads will be sent into the region to mop up any remaining pockets of woodpeckers that were able to survive the habitat destruction phase of the operation.

"Oh, once we've cleared out this undergrowth we'll get that little peckerwood soon enough," the President explained in a televised news conference. "He can fly, but he can't hide."

---

Unfortunately, not every story has such a happy ending. The following account describes a tragic encounter with another of our feathered foes, and clearly illustrates the threat that these extraneous species pose to our way of life.



The Lesser Catenary, long though to be extinct, has been rediscovered in a remote part of Louisiana some 400 years after the last confirmed U.S. sighting, chimera experts said Thursday.

"This is huge. Just huge," said Franklin Stein, senior chimerologist at the Aubonbon Society. "It's like finding Elvis."

However, according to anonymous sources, Mr. Stein has never actually found Elvis, so he really has no idea what that would be like. Under further questioning and a little light torture he broke down and admitted that his previous statement had been "“a load of crap.”"

The chimera was discovered accidentally by two guys who had become lost deep in the swamp after neither of them was willing to ask directions at the little gas station up the road. This is how one of the men, Duane McAllister, described the experience:

"When we finished our Moon Pies," McAllister said, "Billy sat down on a log, put his face in his hands and began to sob, saying, 'I saw a catenary. I saw a catenary.' McAllister said he was so choked with emotion he almost peed his pants. “"I was thinking ‘'Jesus Christ, what is that thing?’' I didn’'t care for the way it was looking at us, not one little bit. I told Billy that I thought we ought to get the hell out of there, but he just kept blubbering. Right about then, I heard this big screech and I looked up and it was coming right at us, so I started running back down the path. I tripped on a tree root--just like the girls always do in those horror movies--and fell out into some kudzu. I guess that probably saved my life, cause about then I heard screaming and when I looked back that damned bird, or whatever the hell that thing is, had eviscerated Billy. It was horrible! I just lay there thinking that it’'d be coming for me next, but after it had finished eating Billy, it started in on our beer. I waited till it was stumbling drunk and hightailed it out of there--it took me two days to find my way back to town. Man, every time I think about it it gives me chills. What that bird did to Billy was unspeakably horrific. Somebody ought to go out there and shoot the friggin'’ thing, but I tell you what, it sure as hell ain'’t gonna be me!"

How about some real good science for a change?

In a recent comment to an old post of mine concerning the feasibility of flushing the Koran down a toilet, Sleepy GB (who formerly was supportive of my work) now suggests that my science sucks, due in part to the fact that my toilet does not. I can defend neither my science nor my toilet against these meretricious charges, which seem compelling both logically and patriotically. However, the assertion that "The validity of your experimental result, or rather your hypothetical postulation of a simulacrum of a result, is fatally flawed." is a grossly misleading oversimplification of said result, and is technically inaccurate. My conclusions were not, nor were they intended to be, a "hypothetical postulation of a simulacrum of a result" but rather a travesty of a mockery of a sham of a verisimilitude of a hypothetical postulation of a simulacrum of a result. The difference may not be immediately obvious to a layman, but any scientist worth his salt would see it right away and would reject this flawed critique of the flawed experiment, and defend to the death the original flawed experiment, because we scientists have to stick together.

Local Evening News Substitute

Does this sound familiar? You spend a little too long in the shower, or you receive a poorly-timed phone call, or you black out and wake up hours later in the neighbor’s hydrangeas dressed like the Burger King, with no recollection of how you got there, only to discover to your chagrin that you have missed the Local Evening News, again. And now all those people who did see it have got the edge on you. They’re chugging down the Information Superhighway while you’re sitting over in the emergency lane with smoke pouring out from under the hood. Yes, my friend, they know things that you don’t, and it won’t be long before they start using it against you, and soon they’ll have taken all your stuff, and you’ll have nothing left to live for.

You’d probably prefer that that didn’t happen, and so would the good folks at LENScorp. That’s why we put our best people to work on the problem, and now they’ve come up with a way for you to have your evening news and miss it too. We call it Local Evening News Substitute (LENS) and we’re pretty excited about it. And I think you will be too, once you have the facts, and assuming you’ve got a lick of sense.

What we’ve done is to carefully analyze local news broadcasts for the last 10 years using the latest in quantum nanocryptoscatological techniques, originally developed by NASA, the NSA, and the SSA, to come up with a scientifically formulated supplement that contains all the essential ingredients of the local evening newscast in a highly concentrated and easily swallowed form. Now you can get your local evening news whenever it’s most convenient for you, and because it’s been refined and distilled into a 30:1 extract you can get through the whole thing in a minute, leaving you more time to spend with your family. Or to sit alone in the dark drinking Everclear. With Local Evening News Substitute it’s your choice! So open wide, and prepare yourself for a brand new news experience. Here’s a sample to get you started:

Generic Reporter: We begin tonight’s coverage with this exclusive report on a frightening situation that developed in a northwest Phoenix neighborhood earlier today, as police attempted to arrest this woman, 54-year-old Jane Generic, who was reportedly operating a meth lab in a trailer home containing 117 cats, many of them underfed and in generally poor health. A 7-hour standoff ended when the woman emerged from the home covered with cat feces and was tasered several times by a police officer who has since been suspended for allegedly soliciting sex from a teenage drunk driver. We’re not clear on the details at this point, but somehow the woman managed to elude police and carjacked a van loaded with illegal immigrants. She then proceeded to lead police on a wild high-speed chase on Valley freeways, apparently unconcerned about gas prices, which remain at record high levels, with ozone in the unhealthy range for the fourth day in a row. The chase came to an abrupt halt when the woman swerved to avoid a puppy duct-taped to the highway, drove the van into a flooded wash and had to be rescued by a helicopter. One witness at the scene told our camera crew that it was the most exciting thing he had seen since Suns guard Steve Nash’s high-octane performance against the San Antonio Spurs in Friday night’s NBA semifinals. The 12-day old puppy was rescued by police and taken to a local animal shelter, where he remains in guarded condition. This is Generic Reporter, reporting live from northwest Phoenix.

Generic Anchorwoman: That’s quite a story, Generic Reporter. Do we know anything more tonight about the fate of that puppy?

Generic Reporter: Well, Generic Anchorwoman, police officials tell us that the puppy had sustained several superficial stab wound and both his ears had been cut off, but it looks like he’s going to make a full recovery, and already the shelter has received 1,648 calls from people wanting to adopt the little fellow.

Generic Anchorwoman: That’s wonderful Generic Reporter-- we certainly wish the little guy the best. He’s so cute!

Generic Anchorman: Well, you probably wouldn’t cut the ears off a puppy, but how about your own ears? That’s exactly what many Valley residents are doing. A new form of plastic surgery called hyperplastic ear reduction, or HER, promises to erase years from your appearance by removing up to 60 percent of your ears. But is this new procedure the Fountain of Youth or just another scheme to prey on the elderly? Our Investigators report on the latest trend in cosmetic surgery when we return.

Generic Weatherperson: And if you think that Paris Hilton is hot, just wait till you see what’s in store for our weather the next seven days. I’ll tell you just how bad it’s going to be—and we’ll check in on this week’s “Just Kill Us Now, Bellis”…after the break.

(Currently this product is only available for the Phoenix, AZ metropolitan area, but we hope to add other cities soon. Stay tuned for details.)

Michael, Michael, Michael--why does everything always have to be about Michael?

I’ve noticed that a lot of people seem to be squabbling about whether Michael Jackson was found “innocent” or “not guilty.” People, now is a time for healing, not divisiveness. (I’m not saying there will never be a time for divisiveness. There will be such a time—I’m really looking forward to it--and when it comes I’ll see to it that you’re among the first to know.) It doesn’t matter if Michael was found “innocent” or “not guilty.” All that truly matters is that he was found to have the resources to hire his own lawyers, rather than having one appointed for him by the court. This is the heart of the American system of jurisprudence, the finest in the world.

I also think it’s important to keep in mind that Mr. Jackson is a visitor from another world, in a galaxy far, far away, and he appears to be having a bit of difficulty understanding and adjusting to our ways. Perhaps the radio transmissions upon which his pre-mission briefings were based had gotten badly garbled by sunspots or something. It may well be that on his home planet sleeping with children is considered acceptable, even admirable. Or maybe they don’t care for it either, and that’s why they sent him here.

As you may recall, we had a similar situation a few years back with E.T. the Extraterrestrial, who also slept in the bed with earth children. Or maybe under the bed, I can’t quite remember. The point is that he was never even brought to trial, much less convicted. So please just leave Michael alone—don’t you think he’s suffered enough? And even if you don’t think he’s suffered enough, I can assure you that I have suffered more than enough for both of us as a result of this incessant Jacksonian prattle, and that I deserve a break today, or if not today, at least by early next week.

Now is the time that we must come together to heal America’s wounds, and I can think of no better way to do that than for us to turn our nation’s collective gaze away from Michael’s misadventures and focus it once again on Janet’s breasts, which in my opinion have received shockingly little coverage. Sure, there was a brief, titillating flurry of interest in her right breast, but what about the other one? I’m sure it’s nice too. Why have we heard nothing in the press—and seen less—of Janet Jackson’s left breast? Could it be a partisan cover-up? Think about it. Not now--later, when you’re alone.

A revision of my previous position on that whole bedbug business

OK, you know what, I’m gonna have to analyze that old adage after all. I thought I could refrain from doing so, but I can’t. I’m just not that strong. I have to face the facts: I’m part of the problem, I will always be part of the problem, and I might as well accept that and try to work within the system.

At first I was puzzled as to how the people who made this saying thought we could stop the bloody bedbugs from biting us when we were already unconscious. Then I realized that the problem was that most adage analysts, myself included, had always focused on the final section “don’t let the bedbugs bite,” while virtually ignoring the “sleep tight,” assuming—incorrectly, as it turns out—that it served little purpose in the saying other than to provide a catchy rhyme. My friends, nothing could be further from the truth. Sleeping tight (i.e., inebriated) is in fact the key to the whole puzzle, and once we understand its true meaning, everything else falls into place.

Actually, the key to the whole puzzle is the sleep apnea that results from going to bed drunk; “sleep tight” is more of a clue that leads us to the key, like a note that says “The key’s under the doormat.” The doormat represents the rest of the saying, that’s keeping us from seeing the key, and it’s really my groundbreaking analysis of the adage that’s analogous to the note, which enables us to cut through the bullshit and see the key. So the next piece of the puzzle is the fact that bedbugs locate their prey by detecting carbon dioxide produced by the respiratory process, which you may recall was disrupted earlier by the alcohol-induced sleep apnea--but would that be the lock or the door?

OK, this whole thing is starting to unravel—let me start over. Sleep apnea, which prevents us from breathing, is the key, and “sleep tight” is still the note that leads us to the key, but now the key is inside the house, under a vase of flowers, and the note is a yellow sticky note on the fridge reminding us where we put the key, which makes a lot more sense, cause what kind of damn fool would go to the trouble of hiding a key under the doormat—which would be the first place a bedbug would look anyway—and then leave a note on the door telling where the key was. So now we’re all indoors except the bedbugs and “sleep tight” has reminded us that sleep apnea is under the vase of flowers, so we take sleep apnea out from under the vase and put it in the lock, which represents our breathing, thus preventing carbon dioxide emissions (the door) from opening, and with carbon dioxide emissions closed and locked, the bedbugs are stuck out in the front yard, so all they can do is go bite somebody else, or go to sleep themselves.

Oh, for God’s sake, I forgot the alcohol! I’m going to try one more time and if that doesn’t work I’m giving up. OK, so now “sleep tight” is the note that leads us to the alcohol, which is the key under the vase, and we use the alcohol to lock sleep apnea, which prevents carbon dioxide emissions from opening, thus keeping the bedbugs locked out in the front yard. (The whole distinction between breathing and carbon dioxide emissions was contrived to begin with—I had to do it because I had forgotten about alcohol and didn’t have anything left to be the door. This is much nicer.) Then we take alcohol out of sleep apnea and put it back under the vase, and finally we can go to bed (bed doesn’t represent anything—it’s a real bed) and get some sleep. I don’t know about you, but I am exhausted.

I blame myself for this oversight and all the needless suffering that has resulted from it; however, many adagologists who are less willing than I to accept personal responsibility for screwing up insist that the misdirection was intentional, and that this cryptic saying was the means by which a secret order of Bugnoscenti communicated their arcane knowledge to their followers around the world, while concealing its true meaning from the masses. The purported purpose of the deception was to protect this ruling elite from the deleterious effects of bedbug attacks, while keeping the general populace itchy, scratchy, sleepy, dopey and docile. For centuries, according to a paper recently published in American Adagology, “this Secret Order of Bugnoscenti has ruled over an obedient, phlebotomized population of insanguinary indolents, toiling zombie-like in the stinking moneypits for their pitiless puppetmasters.”

I don’t know, I think they’re being a bit paranoid, or maybe they’ve been hitting “the key” a little heavy, if you know what I mean. But even if such things were going on during the middle, old, bronze, or dark ages, nothing like that could happen now. Could it? I mean, who would go to that much trouble to get a bunch of pasty-faced, bug-chewed zombie minions when they could just buy modern, high-tech zombie computers for like a nickel apiece, that’ll toil in the stinking moneypits 24/7 as long as they have an internet connection.

Anyway, the joke’s on them, cause what we now know that the ancient Bugnoscenti didn’t, is that sleep apnea has been linked to high blood pressure, a major fear factor for heart disease and stroke, so probably you’d be better off to just let the darn bedbugs bite you and drain off a little of that blood. And it might not hurt to reevaluate your plans for world domination, which sounds like it would be very stressful, and would pump your blood pressure up even higher, and before you know it you’d just pop like a big red balloon.

Or you might prefer to go with leeches, which are enjoying the renewed interest of the medical community these days, and are so much more fashionable than bedbugs. They come in a wide variety of sizes and colors, so there should be no problem in finding a leech suited to your individual needs and decor. Medical-grade leeches have a low incidence of sexual side effects, as long as they are removed before the initiation of intercourse. So ask your doctor if leeches are right for you. Who knows, it may turn out that the bedbugs were right for you all along. Wouldn’t that be something, after all the trouble I’ve gone to?

Wow, we’ve really learned a lot here today, haven’t we? The one thing I hope everyone will take away from this session is that sometimes those hoary old saws are replete with a profound and timeless wisdom, even if they sound dumb as hell. This same principle applies to my writing, by the way, so keep your eyes peeled and perhaps you’ll be the first to discover the deeper hidden meaning (cryptonificance) in what at first glance might appear to be a pithless parcel of persiflage. Sorry, there’s no prize, just the personal satisfaction of a job well done. Hey, that’s more than I get out of it.

Tiny little bugs are sucking the life out of our economy

Bed bugs threaten to put bite on U.S. hotel industry - May. 12, 2005
You know what they say, “Good night, sleep tight, and don’t let the bedbugs bite.” But do you know why they say it? Me neither.

This is another one of those sayings that doesn’t really make a lot of sense when you analyze it… so it’s probably best to not analyze it. Wow, I just realized that right this second as I was typing. I was about to analyze the hell out of the thing, but what’s the point? I’d launch into some long, tiresome tirade, and most people would stop reading right about now, and those who didn’t would not be uplifted in any way by my nit-picking and negativity. This saying has probably brought great comfort over the years to a lot of people who have not analyzed it. I don’t know about you, but I no longer intend to embrace negativity, and I’m seriously considering giving up nit-picking as well. I don’t know about you, but I want to be part of the solution, not part of the problem.

Coming soon--another little round robot!

iRobot - Robots for the Real World : Scooba Landing
Another milestone on my personal journey to total sloth. I already own and enjoy the Roombafloor vacuum and automated cat chaser, but sometimes someone has to mop, and sometimes that someone has to be me. It's quite distasteful, so I am happy to see that iRobot will soon be making a robot floor mopper named Scooba. I'm hoping that next year they'll come out with the Grand Pooba toilet cleaning robot. I don't know about you, but when I was much younger I used to dream of using an army of robots to control the universe. That seems increasingly unlikely, so my new dream is to use an army of robots to control just the living room, kitchen and one bathroom. I think that might be doable.

Flush right

Newsweek Apologizes for Report of Koran Insult

Really, Newsweek, how hard would it have been to check this story out before 17 people wound up dead in the traditional celebratory riots? Never mind, I can answer that question myself--not that hard at all. I was able to do the research in my spare time for less than $2.17, using items commonly found in most homes and a fairly standard lack of understanding of scientific principles and methods.

Now the question of whether it is moral, ethical, useful or seemly to flush a Qur’an down the toilet is one best left for philosophers, politicians, religious leaders and people who just like to run their mouths for no particular reason. It does not really fall within the purview of scientific inquiry. The question which drew my interest was “Is it even possible to flush a Qur’an down the toilet?” and this was where I decided to focus my research.

I first examined the hole in the bottom of the toilet, using remote sensing techniques, and found it to be approximately 3-4 inches across. I then searched on Amazon.com for “Qur’an” and determined that a typical Qur'an would be something in the range of 8.1” x 5.0” x 1.4”, contain 465 pages, and weigh 1.6 pounds, give or take. Based on this preliminary research I was now ready to form my hypothesis, which was, simply stated, “No way could you flush a thing like that down any toilet I’ve ever seen!”

At first glance, it might seem that the ideal test of my hypothesis would be to attempt to flush a Qur’an down the toilet and see if it worked. This is what we call in science the “direct approach.” However, I had learned enough from Newsweek’s experience to realize that in this particular instance we would likely obtain more satisfactory results using what we call in science the “indirect approach.” This entailed selecting A BOOK SIMILAR IN SIZE AND COMPOSITION TO A QUR’AN, WHILE NOT ACTUALLY BEING A QUR’AN, and attempting to flush that book down the toilet. I think it’s important that I make this one thing perfectly clear, so let me repeat: NO QUR’ANS WERE FLUSHED OR IN ANY WAY INJURED IN THE MAKING OF THIS EXPERIMENT!

However, selecting just the right book turned out to be problematic. I felt that Science would be best served by flushing one of my housemate Linda’s books, for technical reasons which I won’t go into here. Linda strongly disagreed with my conclusion and offered two alternatives: (1) I could flush one of my own books, or (2) I could forget this damn nonsense and go to bed.

For my part, I remained unconvinced of the efficacy of either of these approaches, and continued to try to arrive at an experimental design which would be acceptable to both of us. After a great deal of thought, I came up with what seemed to me a reasonable compromise, which was that I would wait until Linda was asleep and then flush one of her books down the toilet.


A great deal of thought...

But every plan has a flaw, or at least every one of my plans does, and the flaw in this particular plan was that Linda’s ability to stay up long after midnight far exceeds anything of which I am capable.

Finally, as I was approaching my wits’ end (a disturbingly short journey), I thought to myself in desperation, “What would Einstein do?” And duh…!! Of course he’d perform a gedanken (thought) experiment! So without further ado, I initiated a thought experiment.

Flush with enthusiasm for the new experimental design, I first thought about flushing Linda’s cookbook “Presencia de la Comida Prehispanica”, which is full of recipes for cooking things like bugs and salamander heads, but it’s so big it wouldn’t go in the toilet at all, even with the seat up.

Next, I felt it would only be fair to envision using one of my books. I selected Bob Marx’s classic tome “Shipwrecks of the Western Hemisphere,” which of all the books I own seemed most likely to have been optimized for an aquatic environment. I mentally inserted it into the toilet with no trouble, but it would not go down the hole.

I was a little peeved with Linda for placing her own selfish interests above the Greater Good of Mankind, and so I was going to think about flushing a copy of her thesis, but I couldn’t remember exactly how big it was, and was concerned that any data I might obtain would thus be of questionable validity.

By this point, I was growing increasingly frustrated with the thought experiment, which seemed to be getting nowhere, and I was forced to accept—once again—that I am no Einstein, that in fact I am totally unlike Einstein in every regard, except for the tendency to come to work wearing bedroom slippers.

I now realized that if this important work were to continue, I would have to make sacrifices that I had been unwilling to make earlier in the evening, so I returned to my room to reexamine my bookshelf. In order to minimize the adverse impact on my already modest collection, I decided to proceed directly to the smallest book I owned, the book most likely to slip past the event horizon of the toilet bowl. The downside, of course, was that such a small book might produce a false positive. The bright side was that any negative result thus obtained would be a true negative and that would be truly positive, as I could then go to bed. I was getting really sleepy.

As fate would have it, the smallest book I own is “Operating Instructions” by Anne Lamott, a wonderfully candid account of the birth of her firstborn son, laced with humor and poetry and moments of profound insight. Now it just so happens that I have some Issues associated with this particular book, stemming from an unfortunate incident which occurred years ago in a lesbian bookstore in Petaluma.

It was shortly after 9/11 and all over the country, people were struggling to come to terms with the anger they were feeling toward the French for their cowardly and traitorous attempts to undermine American world leadership at this critical juncture. Renaming the potatoes “Freedom Fries” had done little to relieve the tension, and fear and suspicion hung in the air like smog that night in late October when my former girlfriend Jenni and I entered the bookstore where Anne Lamott (ALM) was signing copies of her book. Or maybe that was actual smog, but anyway things were pretty tense.

It’s not entirely clear what happened next, but according to most accounts I made a joke about bombing the French, which was not well received. Either ALM didn’t realize I was joking and thought that I was a war-mongering, xenophobic yahoo or—worse still—she did know I was joking but didn’t think my pathetic attempt at humor merited even a pretense of amusement. For whatever reason, she just glared at me for a moment, then turned away to conduct a careful examination of her pen, repeatedly clicking the button to make sure it was operating within normal parameters. But she and Jenni hit it off great, so I sulked over in the Self-Help section the rest of the evening, while they were laughing and gesticulating and sipping a grassy little Chardonnay with just a hint of pears. Anyway, the end result of the whole affair is that now Jenni has a book inscribed on the inside front cover …

To Jennifer,
It was great meeting you!
Love, Anne Lamott
P.S. Dump the Republican!

 … and I just have a book.

And the memory of that evening of course, which I would have successfully repressed by now if it weren’t for Jenni constantly reminding me of it. Say, for example, that we’re reminiscing about the old days and I might say something nice like “Do you remember that time in Hawaii, when our love was new and life seemed imbued with infinite possibilities, and we were walking hand in hand along Waikiki beach in the…”

“Nope,” she says, “but I remember when Anne Lamott thought you were a Republican.”

“Can’t we please just get past that?”

“She hated you!”

“You know, it’s very hurtful to me when you say that, and furthermore I don’t feel that it’s an entirely accurate representation of …”

“Oh yeah, she hated you sooo much!” she exclaims gleefully, leaping from her chair to do the “Anne Lamott liked me so much better than [she did] you” dance, which is like some unholy amalgam of a Maori war dance and the strutting walk of a very large pigeon. Over the years I have grown to hate this dance almost as much as Anne Lamott hated me that chilly October night in Petaluma.

The more I thought about this, the more I thought that—in the interest of Science and world peace—I might be willing to sacrifice my copy of “Operating Instructions” for the Greater Good, so I placed it respectfully in the toilet and gave her a flush.


A sacrifice for science and world peace

And did it work? It most assuredly did not. I even took the bricks out of the toilet water tank, so that I could get the full water-wasting, turbocharged flow that I had coming to me. This had no apparent effect, though on the third flush attempt the book assumed a flatter orientation relative to the hole, resulting in an outflow of water sufficient to run all the way into Linda’s bedroom. At this point her commitment to the project, which had been minimal at best, completely evaporated..

But by then, I think the evidence in support of my hypothesis was overwhelming, and I now feel quite confident in stating that a Qur’an, or rather A BOOK SIMILAR IN SIZE AND COMPOSITION TO A QUR’AN, WHILE NOT ACTUALLY BEING A QUR’AN, is simply not flushable using currently available technology.

The experiment successfully concluded, I retrieved “Operating Instructions” and put it out on the back porch to dry out, which didn’t take long at all, because it’s a small book and we live in a godforsaken desert where the humidity is, like, you know, 11% or whatever. The pages have gotten kind of curly, which has made the book slightly thicker and thus even less likely to go down the toilet in the future, but otherwise it is no worse for the experience. Personally, I like the book even better than I did before, because now I can hypothesize that it originally had an inscription, which was tragically washed away by the toilet water. This is what the hypothetical inscription said:

My dearest Jim,
Your ironic comments concerning the French were the wittiest and most insightful I have ever heard. And you’re really hot!
All my love,
Anne

P.S. Dump the dancing chick!